Dying Embers
by Final Saturn
Summary: The remaining Guardians survive only for their mission. From Sailor Pegasus' point of view about the rebirth of Phoenix.


With Delphinus gone, we have always taken turns watching the monitors for suspicious activity. Someone has to do it in her stead, and what are guardians without something to guard? We also have more personal reasons. It feels like we keep her memory alive through the work. Also, trans-dimensional monsters are surprisingly good for taking care of feelings.

Candace used to have eyes that looked like dancing fire. Her eyes brought to mind the phoenix she represented. I should call her that: Phoenix; those names are all we refer to each other by these days. Our mission is our only reason for living, after all. Phoenix is the only one who ever showed signs of moving on from the battle. She seemed almost happy for awhile. True, I was jealous of her happiness. Happiness was elusive for Ara, Andromeda, and myself, but I felt better knowing that she had it. 

Maybe she found solace in her gods; she certainly spent enough time chanting in her free time, if time can really be called free. I never caught her looking deep in thought or very sad, as I was prone to do with Ara and Andromeda. I know that a lot of my time was spent in such a condition. Whatever the cause, she certainly cheered us some, as well keeping things in order and instilling many different sorts of spells and charms on everything the realm.

On one particular occasion, I was awoken from my sleep by very loud alarm bells but immediately fell back into the welcoming darkness when I realized that Phoenix would take care of it and that Andromeda would be the one to take her post. When Ara woke me, though, I vaguely wondered why Phoenix hadn't taken someone with her. We generally work alone, unless something big comes up. Then, two of us go so that there is always one free to go back to get the others.

I was the one on guard duty when she finally returned. The monitor showed her coming, and I rushed to the pool she had entered what felt like a short time ago. Just as I began to wonder what was taking so long, I saw a shadow beneath the surface of the liquid. I quickly thrust my arms in and pulled her upright. Her face was barely recognizable under all of the blood and a patch of hair was missing. She still hasn't recovered from it, whatever _it _was. She never told us, and we will never ask.

It took weeks before the external wounds were healed. Had she been human, she would have lost a finger; it had been hanging by just a few threads. The cuts on her body made her look like a piece of gruesome artwork. I was never able to tell if there was actually any skin left on her arms, and her legs looked like a checkerboard. It took hours to peel the remaining strips of her fuku out of the blood. I cannot begin to fathom the amount of pain it must have caused her. After a few years, all of the scarring had disappeared and her hair grew back, even if it was white. Cuts on the outside will go away, but internal wounds aren't repairable. 

We were all taken by surprise, except Phoenix, I suppose, when she was finally able to transform again. Over the years, we had all gained power and become Super Senshi, but she had gained more power. Whatever she had gone through, Phoenix had found strength somewhere inside herself and powered up. The black wings on her back explained the feathers I had found when I cleaned her up; that's me for you, thinking of unimportant things at important times. Maybe, if I wasn't like that, one of the others would be alive. The three of us didn't know what to call her at first, but she said she was Star Phoenix. 

None of us spend much time around each other, what with our mission and all, but Phoenix rarely strings a sentence together in our hearing. I can't speak for Andromeda and Ara, but I realize that I talk more to make up for her silence. Even when she's not around, no one says anything about how dark her hair is or about the white streak now in it, despite the fact that we are ageless. It's a bit unsettling to turn to her and realize that she has wings; things like that are hard to get used to. I can barely meet her eyes any more. I'm sure she notices, but I can't bring myself to see them. The haunted look in them is not what bothers me; it's their color. It reminds me of how final everything is. The fire dancing in her eyes has turned to dying embers. I can't help but think of the ash that follows embers. The phrase "ashes to ashes and dust to dust" makes everything seem so pointless. Then again, that has become the story of our lives.


End file.
